I’m a lucky guy. Anyone can see how fortunate I am. There is plenty of food on my table. There’s art on the walls. I’m in my own home. I am surrounded by friends, who are wonderful, supportive and talented people. I have the love of my daughter and my lady to keep me glad. We celebrate the birthday of my cat, for heaven’s sakes. I’ve got it good.
Of course we all know being well fed and well loved doesn’t make a person happy. But in my opinion, any complaint I make is a direct insult to the 99% of the world’s population who are plainly worse off than me. If I can’t be happy with what I have, I suspect there’s no hope for happiness anywhere. So I work at it, and the results are good.
Good is good. Good may even be as good as it gets, at least for a householder with commitments and responsibilities and goals and aspirations. There’s a reason why shamans live alone, and monks and nuns live in cloistered poverty. It’s hard to bring your spirit to the next level with earthly things weighing you down. I understand that. I can bear the weight, I think.
I suspect I’m always on the path, even when I think I’m staggering around off in the bushes somewhere. I’m at peace with my journey for the most part. I’d like to achieve enlightenment, to raise my consciousness (or rid myself of its nagging chatter) and to become some kind of integrated being. The only trouble is I can’t see how I would do that without turning my back on the world.
And so I muddle along, the man who has everything, relatively content to defer my shot at perfection so I can get a few things done in the real world: Grubby, gritty reality. So be it. And I put on a happy face, and I feel happy.
Today my troubles amount only to this: I have misplaced the picture I took of Terry Fox, running up the yellow line along the middle of Highway 17. I’ve told the story and sung the song, so many times and with all my heart, and now it seems the picture has gone.
I’m trying to understand this, to accept it, to let go. And I do, almost. I just call it my missing peace…